


Writing Home

by yet_intrepid



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yet_intrepid/pseuds/yet_intrepid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac pouts about writing to his parents and goes to Enjolras and Combeferre for sympathy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writing Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bobbiewickham](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham/gifts).



Courfeyrac came into Enjolras and Combeferre’s flat without knocking and lounged against the doorpost, pouting. Enjolras looked up.

“What is it, Courfeyrac?” he asked, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips.

Courfeyrac sighed emphatically. “I must write home,” he said. “The de Courfeyrac family has sent the fourth missive inside of a month, and demands an update on my well-being and activities.”

“Then you come in good time,” said Combeferre, his wrinkled brow smoothing a little as he set aside his pen. “We are just doing the same.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened. “—Maybe I’ll go see if Bahorel is to be found anywhere.”

Combeferre laughed. “Come, Courfeyrac. What reasons have you for not wishing to write home? Your family adores you.”

“Ye-es,” Courfeyrac said, crossing somewhat reluctantly to join them at the table, “but I have nothing to _say_ to them, you see. One cannot speak to my four sisters, let alone my mother and my father, the estimable M. de Courfeyrac, of revolutionary activity. You’re lucky, Enjolras; your mother wants to hear all about the political news.”

“I write home about politics, yes, but Combeferre cannot,” Enjolras reminded him. “His father would take the next coach to Paris and force him home if he heard a word of revolutionary activity—or even turn him in.”

Combeferre muttered something rather unintelligible about one of those being worse than the other as Courfeyrac went on.

“Well but Combeferre,” he said, “is _Combeferre_. He can write about his studies.”

Combeferre quirked an eyebrow and handed Courfeyrac some paper and a pen. “Oh? Well, my friend, you can write about those too; you are a student just as I am, you know.”

“Nobody is a student in the same way you are,” Courfeyrac rejoined. “And no, I cannot very well write about my studies—not the _truth_ , at least. Shall I tell them that three days last week I answered roll call and then skipped the entire day of classes to meet with potential recruits? Or that the week before that I got caught drawing cartoons, forgot myself playing billiards in a café where I went for lunch, and spent the entire Roman Law period whispering about my fellow students’ cravats with my neighbor? Combeferre, I think you have forgotten what kind of student I am.”

“Oh, no,” said Combeferre dryly. “I have not forgotten. I merely thought that writing about your studies would force you to open a textbook, or at the least borrow Enjolras’ lecture notes. He does sometimes take them, although they are usually full of either applications to an ideal Republic or explanations of hidden tyranny.”

Courfeyrac spluttered, flailed about for a response, and ended by wadding up the piece of paper he’d been given and throwing it at Combeferre. Combeferre simply caught it and smoothed it back out.

Enjolras shook his head. “You could write about what you’ve been reading,” he offered.

“Enjolras,” said Courfeyrac. He paused, turning quite red. “Er. _You_ , let alone my sister of twelve, do not want to know what I’ve been reading.”

Enjolras lifted his eyebrows and turned back to his letter. Combeferre wrote a sentence as well, and Courfeyrac folded his arms petulantly.

“I can’t write about the revolution,” he said. “I can’t write about school, or rather the lack of it. I can’t write about the gambling or the ladies or how many macarons I eat or the adventures with the gendarmes. What is left?”

“Your waistcoats,” said Combeferre.

“My father will call me vain!” wailed Courfeyrac.

“Well,” Combeferre said, “he might have a point.”

“Why, you—you—” Courfeyrac burst out. He lunged for another piece of paper to wad up and throw, but Combeferre stole them away. They tussled, shaking the table, and at last jerked it too hard and spilled ink over Combeferre’s letter.

“…a thousand pardons,” Courfeyrac said, as he took advantage of Combeferre’s distraction to grab a piece of paper, form it into a ball, and throw it. It hit Combeferre squarely on the back of the head.

“It was a poor draft anyway,” said Combeferre, crumpling the soaked paper and aiming it at Courfeyrac’s white waistcoat.

“No!” Courfeyrac pulled his coat tight. “I’ll write home, I promise, just—don’t—”

Combeferre smiled in satisfaction, as Enjolras laid out paper and pen for Courfeyrac and went for a cloth to clean up the spilled ink. Courfeyrac, still pulling the lapels of his coat over his waistcoat, sat down and began to write.

“Dear Papa, Maman, Félicité, Cassandre, Adèle, and Mémé, my friends are unbearable tormentors…”

Combeferre, reading over his shoulder, threw the ink-soaked ball of paper at his head.


End file.
